With All the Ease of Breathing
by themostrandomfandom
Summary: Brittany loves Santana more than anyone else in this whole world—always has, always will. Five vignettes showing Brittany's love for Santana ranging from when Brittana were thirteen years old to just before their senior year. Canon compliant to 3x06. Mouseverse.
1. Chapter 1

One of the things Brittany loves about Santana is that Santana is an "even though" kind of friend.

Like even though Santana says they're way too old for Saturday morning cartoons now that they're thirteen and in middle school, she'll still watch, hunched over a bowl of cereal, lips wet with milk and soggy sugar, when Brittany turns the television on in the mornings after their sleepovers, and she'll even chuckle at the jokes when she thinks Brittany won't notice.

(Brittany always notices.)

(Santana, at least.)

Even though Santana hates her full name, she doesn't mind it when Brittany doodles it out longhand alongside little hearts and whirligigs and butterflies that look like mirror-image capital Bs on the inside cover of the secret note-notebook they pass back and forth to each other between first and seventh period.

And even though Santana doesn't give very many hugs? She likes it when Brittany hugs her; her whole body relaxes, like a sigh, and she presses into Brittany's hair.

(It feels special and warm, like making a promise that you knows you'll keep.)

So even though Santana doesn't believe that anything short of kitty liposuction will make at difference at this point, she's here anyway, because Brittany swears up and down that a regular walking regimen will do the trick—you know, if Lord Tubbington would ever start moving—and Santana always goes along with Brittany, even if she has other ideas.

The cat lies flat against the sidewalk, or at least as flat as something with a round backend can lie, as if he thinks he can just slip out from under his harness if he crouches low enough to the ground, Brittany on one side of him, Santana on the other.

As soon as they put the harness on him, he just kind of flopped over in the grass and started glowering. Brittany tried her best to convince Lord Tubbington that this walk would do him a world of good, that getting out of the house could be fun and educational if he would only let it be, but Lord Tubbington wouldn't hear it. Instead, he commando-crawled all of two feet forward, stopping just before he reached Brittany's mother's azaleas, and growled.

(Eventually, Brittany gave in and carried him the remaining ten paces to the sidewalk, but she swore that that was it; once she set him down, it was all him, no more free rides.)

(Now she's out of breath; he's still not moving.)

"The vet says he needs to lose three pounds before his next checkup," Brittany pants, stooped over, hands on her knees, as she looks out towards the end of the street. Her goal is to make it to the park and back before noon; she thinks that if they hurry, they can make it in time.

"Just three?" Santana asks, raising an eyebrow; Brittany ignores the jab.

(Even though Santana will go along with the plan, she'll still be a little rude about it on the way; that's just Santana.)

(Brittany tries not to think it's cute when Santana's mean like that.)

(Brittany does think it's cute, though.)

Lord Tubbington has started acting even more unreasonable than usual lately. Brittany says it's because he's going through puberty; Santana says it's because he's a fat ass.

"The only one you're hurting is yourself," Brittany reminds Lord Tubbington, crouching beside him. Lord Tubbington doesn't respond; he looks bored and more than just a little bit ornery. Brittany squints against the sunlight. She can feel summer seeping into her skin, spangling her shoulders and nose with freckles, painting pinkness into her cheeks, spreading out with an even warmth. It would be a nice day if _someone_ would cooperate.

Brittany shakes her head. "Who knew that being in the eighty-ninth weight percentile isn't a good thing?" she mumbles, mostly to Santana and not Lord Tubbington. "I thought that was, like, at least a B+ or something."

Santana stares through her oversized sunglasses at Lord Tubbington spread flat over the concrete, chewing on her soda straw. She gives the leash a halfhearted shake. "Giddyup," she says flatly, taking another sip of Diet Coke. Lord Tubbington glares at Santana and bares his teeth, but otherwise doesn't move. Santana rolls her eyes—Brittany sees her do it behind the amber lenses of her glasses. "Fat ass," Santana mutters, turning away.

Brittany knows there are about a million and a half things Santana would rather do than walk with Lord Tubbington right now, but Santana is here anyway. "I swear to God, Britt," Santana says, "we could probably go to the mall for two hours and Tubbs would still be right where we left him when we got back."

Santana doesn't really care about going to the mall today; what she really wants is to go to the pool party that one of the girls on their cheerleading squad invited them to at one o'clock. It's eleven-thirty now and Santana is starting to get antsy.

The thing is that Santana doesn't even like the girl very much—Santana doesn't like anybody very much, except for Brittany, really—but Santana has gotten kind of obsessed with parties lately and goes to every party she can, even if she hates half the kids on the guest list. There's a quiet desperation in the way she works to please people now that wasn't there in elementary school, but it is as much a part of Santana as everything else that makes Santana, well, Santana, just like all those "even thoughs."

(Santana says that it's important to get out more now that they're in middle school; Brittany doesn't know about that, but since she thinks that most of the people in their grade are pretty okay and she likes dancing and swimming and hanging out and fruit punch anyway, she just kind of goes along.)

(Santana's not the only one who can do that.)

Brittany knows how badly Santana wants to go to this party because Santana refuses to say that that's what she wants. Santana is funny like that: when something really matters to her, she'll almost never mention it. Brittany knows that about Santana, though. She keeps it, like a secret.

Santana hands the leash over to Brittany, impatient. "I'll be right back," she says, turning away. Before Brittany can even ask where Santana's going, Santana disappears into the open garage, ducking around the family van, dropping her empty soda cup into the trash bin pushed against the wall with a flourish, and dodging the bicycles hanging from the rafters as she disappears from sight. Soon, Brittany hears the open and shut of the house door.

Lord Tubbington mewls, annoyed. Brittany says, "Just wait. She'll be back," and, soon enough, Santana is. She exits the house through the front door, carrying the blue plastic squirt bottle Brittany's mom uses to wet her sister's hair down in the mornings before preschool. She must have taken it from the downstairs bathroom. "What are you doing?" Brittany asks, suddenly nervous.

Santana smiles, more devious than happy. "I saw this on the Pet Network, Britt," she says, bending down in front of Lord Tubbington's face.

"Santana!" Brittany says, but it's too late; Santana clicks the trigger on the bottle and a spritz of water blasts Lord Tubbington in the eyes. Lord Tubbington recoils, backing up several steps; the spray condenses on his whiskers, dripping. He hisses and bats at the air in front of him, his expression suddenly tigerlike.

"What?" Santana says, shrugging. "It doesn't hurt him! And it's hot outside, so this will actually cool him off. Plus, it gets him to walk."

Brittany humphs, "Yeah, backwards."

"Walking backwards is still walking, Britt," Santana says wisely, and Brittany can't argue with that logic. Santana shuffles around to the other side of Lord Tubbington and he adjusts to her movement, shying away from the squirt bottle. Now his backend faces in the direction of the park. "Come on, fatty," says Santana, spraying him again; Lord Tubbington retreats about ten steps backwards, until the leash tugs tight.

Reluctantly, Brittany follows after him. Brittany doesn't like the idea of Santana chasing Lord Tubbington all the way to the park like this, but, then again, she has to admit that at least Santana's getting Lord Tubbington to move. Brittany sighs and Santana takes that as her cue to squirt Lord Tubbington again.

The good news is that Santana only has to actually spray Lord Tubbington a few more times before he learns that if he just keeps walking, he can avoid getting his face wet. He still refuses to turn around—he doesn't seem to want Santana to get behind him—but he moves without prompting, backpedaling at a steady pace down the sidewalk. Santana twirls the bottle around her finger like a sharpshooter with a gun in an Old West movie, obviously pleased with her success. "See, Britt? He's exercising."

Brittany just shakes her head. Santana and Lord Tubbington have never really gotten along with each other and there's nothing Brittany can do about it.

(Brittany thinks it's because their zodiac signs are incompatible.)

About halfway to the park, Brittany loses track of time, mainly because they pass a lady in pink and silver jogging sneakers walking a Yorkshire Terrier and Lord Tubbington snarls and makes a lunge at the little dog; the dog yaps and the lady gasps, stumbling back onto somebody's lawn, crushing the little apple thistle growing around the edge of the grass with her shiny shoes. Brittany yanks Lord Tubbington away by his halter and Santana just laughs, not even trying to control her snickers. Once the lady picks up her dog and huffs away, Brittany shakes her head.

"That isn't funny, San," she says, but she refuses to look Santana in the eyes because she knows that if she does, she'll burst out laughing, too.

After that, Santana starts doing slow-motion reenactments of the scandalized expression on the lady's face when Lord Tubbington pounced and Brittany feels adoration for Santana bloom like a flower in her chest. The sunlight catches in Santana's hair, which is so dark and fine that it almost shines blue. Brittany kind of stops checking the clock on her cell phone. Instead, she watches how the corners of Santana's mouth curl and tries to memorize the way Santana seems so at ease, teasing and joking around like this, her gestures getting bigger and more ridiculous with each retelling.

They both giggle like maniacs the rest of the way to the park; every time they look at Lord Tubbington, retreating backend first in front of them, a scowl on his face, the story seems a little funnier.

(Lately, every time Brittany looks at Santana, she gets this light, warm feeling in her chest.)

(When their friends ask who Brittany likes late at night at slumber parties, Brittany will never say.)

When they make it past the park welcome sign with all the rules about picking up after pets and no open flames and no snowmobiles in winter and how children require constant adult supervision on the playground, Santana's telling it like Lord Tubbington is some sort of sabertoothed circus lion and he really did eat the little dog, who was no bigger than a lab rat; she puts on a funny, snooty accent to impersonate the lady, even though the lady didn't actually talk at all.

"That brute!" Santana trills, putting a hand to her heart, scandalized.

Lord Tubbington looks secretly pleased with himself.

Brittany tells Santana to stop giving him a big head and Santana just shrugs.

"He isn't so bad, Britt," Santana mutters. Brittany wishes she could record it.

There's this funny thing about Santana that Brittany knows the same way her body knows how to reach for dance moves when she's at the studio, like something her muscles and bones remember instead of her mind: it's that even though Santana takes a while to wear into things, once she does, she's comfortable, and she stays there like she's become part of the fabric.

She does it at slumber parties, when she takes forever to adjust on the bed, rolling her shoulders and kicking until she makes a perfect, Santana-shaped indent on the mattress and she can finally sigh and sleep. She does it when she visits new places, like when she went with Brittany's family to Columbus to visit Brittany's grandparents last summer and would only say little things like "Thank you, ma'am" and "Please may I?" for the first few hours, until Brittany's grandma fed Brittany and Santana apple fritters as a treat before lunch, and then Santana opened up and talked a lot about how she'd never eaten something like that and that it was so good and about how homemade whipped cream is so much better than that weird stuff in the tubs that gets all hard and nasty if you leave it in the freezer for too long.

Over the years, Santana's done the same thing with Brittany, too—worn into her, made a fit. Brittany feels it when they link pinky fingers on their way across the soccer fields.

It's one of the things that Brittany loves best about Santana, actually: that they just kind of go together.

When Brittany first planned this walk, she had thought that once she and Santana and Lord Tubbington reached the park, they would just turn around and go back to her house to get ready for the party. But as soon as Brittany tries to steer Lord Tubbington back the way they already came, Santana's eyebrows knit together.

"What are you doing, BrittBritt?"

Brittany shrugs. "I thought we should go," she starts, thinking of the pool party and the fact that this walk has already taken a lot longer than either she or Santana had expected. She doesn't mention the party by name because Santana hasn't said anything about it yet herself and Brittany doesn't want Santana to think that she has her heart set on it or anything.

(Brittany wouldn't mind going, of course.)

(But.)

Santana shakes her head. She peels her sunglasses off her face and hangs them on her shirt collar. "We made Tubbs walk all this way. Now that we're here…," Santana pauses like she's searching for something. "Wanna get some ice cream?" She nods towards the pavilion on the far end of the park next to the baseball diamonds where Brittany used to play t-ball in second grade. Santana is smiling now, and even though Brittany knows that Santana hasn't really forgotten about the party, it's easy for both of them to pretend that she has.

Brittany feels something warm inside her and gives Santana's pinky a little tug. "But what about…?" she asks, and she's almost going to say it. There's a smile in her voice to match the one on her face. Everything seems summer bright and wonderful all of the sudden.

Santana shakes her head and the next thing Brittany knows Santana has the blue squirt bottle pointed in Brittany's face. Santana wears an evil look and gives the trigger on the bottle a warning squeeze.

"Santana!" Brittany crosses her arms in front on her eyes, still holding tight to the end of Lord Tubbington's leash. The cat strains against his harness when he feels Brittany move, nervous now that Santana has brandished the bottle again. Brittany feels nervous, too—but the giggly kind.

"Ice cream. Now," Santana says, her evil look changing into a smile.

"Ice cream," Brittany repeats, nodding, moving her hands away from her face in mock surrender. Now both of them grin like they have a secret and for a second, Santana's eyes fix on Brittany's mouth. Santana swallows; she has the same windswept look she gets when she and Brittany spend all day riding their bikes up and downhill. After another second, Santana drops her guard, the squirt bottle falling harmlessly to her side.

And then Brittany pounces.

In the next instant, Brittany wrests the bottle from Santana's hands. Santana flinches and shrieks, but Brittany's too fast: she sprays Santana half in the face, half in the neck as Santana dodges away. Santana splutters, "What the hell?" but she's laughing and already scrambling to take the squirt bottle back so she can have her revenge, water flecked across her lips and dripping from the crook of her neck, dotting the amber lenses of her glasses, which rattle against her chest.

And even though what Santana says next is "God, I wasn't actually gonna spray you!" and what Brittany says is "I know, but I was always gonna spray you anyway," what they really mean is something else.

(Brittany will figure it out before Santana does.)

(But it's there for both of them already.)

For the next five minutes, Santana keeps swiping at the bottle and Brittany holds it high above her head, dancing away whenever Santana gets too close. They do a whole lot of laughing, but not a lot of talking. And this is either one of the things or everything that Brittany loves best about Santana.

(Santana never talks about the things that matter to her most.)

About the time that Santana finally manages to tackle Brittany to the ground, rubbing her face into the itchy grass and pinning her down with knobby elbows, they both realize all at once that Brittany dropped the leash a while back, and look up, breathless, to see what happens next. And even though Santana had all sorts of other ideas about what they would do today, she's in this with Brittany now, just like she always is.

(For the first time since Brittany got him, Lord Tubbington runs, free.)


	2. Chapter 2

So maybe dancing around, singing into a hairbrush, wearing nothing but boy briefs, a beater, and purple tube socks is a pretty fourteen year-old thing to do. But Brittany is still fourteen, at least for a few more weeks, and Santana will be fourteen for a few more months still.

So.

Later, Brittany will remember this as one of the last times Santana will ever tell her to put her pants back on while they're hanging out alone together, but right now, all she can do is try to keep breathing, because sometimes laughing this hard can be dangerous.

"Oh my god! Just—," Santana splutters, tossing Brittany's discarded jogging shorts at her from across the room. Brittany dodges, grinning, and claps as the shorts land harmlessly beside her blaring iPod speakers on the floor, crumpling like a used parachute. Santana sits cross-legged on the bed, doubled-over and clutching her stomach. Her eyes glean, small and shining, and she chokes on more giggles. "Pants!" she gasps. Brittany turns around and shakes her pantsless booty for effect, pursing her lips in a kiss that she doesn't quite get around to blowing.

Later, Brittany will forget exactly what it was that made her decide to stage an impromptu karaoke concert halfway through putting on her pajamas and what song she even chose to sing—it's the Romantics, their one and only hit—and that she used Santana's hairbrush for a microphone instead of her own, but for right now, she feels so into everything that she can't imagine that she would ever forget any of this, because it all seems so important, like the white, waiting moment at the top of the rollercoaster track, just before the car plunges into that first huge, dizzy-making drop. She wants to remember all of it, and it seems like Santana does, too.

Santana draws a deep breath, suppressing her giggles, but not her smile. "Click," she says, miming like she has a camera aimed at Brittany. She falls back onto the mattress, legs still crossed, and closes her eyes, as if to process the photo.

Brittany thinks Santana might be the cutest thing she's ever seen.

From here on out, Brittany will remember.

In the next second, Brittany launches herself off the floor onto the bed, throwing herself down just as Santana draws herself up. What Brittany means to do is kiss Santana's cheek, but what she does instead is kiss her mostly on her open mouth. She feels the wet of Santana's bottom lip against her own and the way Santana's laughter melts into her skin. Santana hadn't expected this, so she doesn't even close her eyes; neither does Brittany. With their lips still connected, Brittany sees a flash of surprise pass over Santana's face. Brittany pulls away quickly.

They've never kissed when it isn't practicing for boys, never when they're both wide awake like this.

Or at least they've never kissed just for themselves when they both know that the other one is awake, too.

Not when no one can pretend they're dreaming.

They both still have their mouths open and laughter warm in their throats. Brittany can tell Santana is about to get nervous, so before she can say anything, Brittany grins. "Oops. I missed," she says, apologetic, her nose an inch from Santana's. Santana thinks Brittany means one thing, but Brittany really means another. What Brittany really means is another kiss, this one full on the mouth, and sweeter, not a rush. She doesn't linger long—just enough for Santana to know that this one isn't a mistake.

Later, Brittany will remember that it took Santana ten seconds to exhale after Brittany pulled away. She'll remember the way her own hair hung down, enclosing them like gold curtains around an old-fashioned bed. She'll remember that Santana tasted like the strawberry Fanta they drank at dinner—like sugar and fake fruit and Red Dye #40—and how she stayed propped up on her elbows, her eyes wide and pupils dilated, like Brittany was the only thing she could see in the whole room.

She'll remember that Santana kissed back.

After a beat, they both start laughing again. Santana says "BrittBritt!" and flops over on her side, reaching for a pillow to drag over her face, hiding her not-quite-blush, her legs still pretzel tangled beneath Brittany, who straddles her, grinning. For a second, Brittany thinks that maybe she could get used to this.

Santana is the one who took the picture, but Brittany will remember everything from this one moment.

She'll save it away for when they're fifteen and sixteen and seventeen, when things aren't so easy and perfect.

She'll save it for after they drop.

But for now, though, she just rolls off Santana, away from the bed and onto the floor, and goes looking for that hairbrush again. There's a new song playing from her iPod—Usher, one of his one million hits—and she wants to sing it before Santana can finally force her to put her pajama bottoms on and go to sleep. (They have cheer practice tomorrow.) She snatches the hairbrush up from the floor and strikes her best pose, ready and waiting, breathless.


	3. Chapter 3

Tonight was supposed to be the two of them plus an empty house plus several boxed sets of 90's sitcoms on DVD equals "We'll see where the night takes us," but as soon as Santana answers Brittany's call, she knows it isn't going to be that at all.

"San, can you come over now? Please?"

The way Brittany says it doesn't sound like movie night, and it sure as hell doesn't sound like making out and more-than-making-out later. Then again, it also doesn't sound quite like driving across town in the rain, either, which is what they will end up doing instead.

(Santana doesn't know that last part yet, of course.)

When Brittany gets scared, her words hop like a bird, jumping from perch to perch, each sentence ending on an upswing, like a question—the bird flying away. That's how she sounds now and it jolts Santana; she didn't expect a scared Brittany tonight, so the flightiness scares her, especially over the phone, when Santana can't see Brittany to assess the situation.

"BrittBritt, what's the matter?" Santana turns the volume on her speakers down, dampening the music. She stands from her desk chair and starts pacing; the excited, waiting feeling that had nestled in her chest for the last hour smothers and falls away, replaced by needling worry.

(She had been listening to a playlist labeled "B" that's loaded up with acoustic love songs in major keys. Now she just listens to Brittany's quick breathing on the end of the line.)

(Santana tells herself that "B" stands for "bedtime," because that's when she listens to it, mostly.)

"Can you hurry?"

"Be right there."

Brittany's home alone this weekend, her parents and little sister away at an end-of-summer Girl Scout jamboree in Toledo. Brittany wanted to go with them, but couldn't because Coach Sylvester scheduled the varsity cheer clinic for every day this week, including Sunday. At first, Brittany seemed pretty disappointed that she couldn't go to the city with her family—Brittany loves road trips the way Santana loves getting expensive things for free—but after Santana explained to her how having a whole empty house to themselves for a few days could be a good thing, Brittany cheered up right away.

("That's cool," she told Santana.)

("Hells yeah," Santana said.)

(Things don't seem so cool right now, though.)

Santana imagines about a million bad things that could have happened in-between the time Brittany dropped her off at her house after the cheer clinic and the moment that Brittany called her, so freaked out, each one worse than the next, as she throws her letterman jacket on over her uniform, scrounges her jangling key ring from her desktop, and hurries down to her car, her white sneakers bright against the darkness and the slick, black rain puddles gathering on the concrete.

New fear overwhelms her everyday sort. She feels shaky all over and all she can think is that she hopes that Brittany is okay and that whatever this is isn't too bad because, oh god, Brittany's parents aren't home and what are she and Brittany even supposed to do if this shit is serious? Like, should they call Brittany's parents in Toledo or Santana's parents at work or the police or Brittany's neighbor or something? It's ten fucking o'clock at night.

Santana almost forgets to check her mirrors as she backs out of the driveway. It takes her four minutes to make it to Brittany's house when usually it takes her six; she makes what her dad would call "California stops" at every sign and thinks to herself Oh god, oh god, oh god, her grip tight over the steering wheel.

Even though it's nighttime and raining, Santana has no trouble punching in the code to open Brittany's garage door; the Pierces use the same password for everything, and Santana has known it by heart since elementary school.

(It's Brittany's birthday: day, month, year.)

"Britt?" Santana says, stepping into the kitchen, her heartbeat fluttering in her chest.

No answer, no Brittany.

It takes Santana's eyes a moment to find the dim, green light pouring from the clock on the microwave. Santana knows the Pierce's kitchen like her own kitchen, though, so once she begins to see through the shadows, she immediately notices what's out of place: a halo of broken glass and thick, dark sauce spattered on the floor behind the kitchen island. The sharp vegetable smell of marinara hangs in the air.

Brittany Pierce is anything but clumsy, and, also, for someone whose sports are dance and cheer, she's actually a pretty damn good catch; Santana can't imagine what would make Brittany drop her dinner like that—and especially not what would make Brittany leave the mess without cleaning it up afterwards.

Except.

Actually, Santana can imagine, and that's just the problem.

Santana can imagine about a million awful things that would spook Brittany into spilling her spaghetti sauce, like a serial killer jumping out from the darkness, or one of the boys that Brittany's been with coming around to rape her, or gunshots fired through the front window, or kidnappers breaking in through the sliding glass door. Maybe Santana watches too much television or something.

"BrittBritt?" Santana calls again; she can almost taste her own heartbeat.

Santana leaves the kitchen and stops at the bottom of the stairs. Everything in the house is dark. Thunder grumbles through the window; the wooden floorboards beneath Santana's feet mumble in response. "Britty?" Santana yells up to the second floor, her voice fraying in her throat. Brittany either has to be in her room or in the basement, and if Santana doesn't find out which one it is soon, her heart might just explode.

And then.

"Up here!" comes Brittany's muffled response.

Santana exhales sharply; Brittany's alive.

"Holy fuck, Britt," Santana mumbles, rubbing at her heart as she starts to climb the stairs. She talks angry, but she's really nervous, with no idea what she'll find upstairs. "Make this look like a goddamn horror movie, why don't you? Leave the damn sauce out. I swear to god, Britt. And during a thunderstorm, too..."

Acting mean doesn't really make Santana feel any better, but she pretends it does, not just about this, but about everything. A year and a half from now, Santana will figure out that, nine times of ten, her anger is really just fear dressed up to scare other people as much as it scares her.

(She hasn't realized that just yet, though.)

(She curses like it helps her, but still just can't stop shaking.)

It's as dark upstairs as it is down; Brittany has all the bedroom lights off, including her own. The glass on the framed photos along the wall glares down at Santana, black against a lesser black, the pictures behind it unseeable. Santana tries Brittany's room first, pushing open the door and reaching for the light switch. Before the bulb can even glow to its full brightness, Brittany calls out, "No! Turn it off!" and Santana complies immediately, her panic returning in an instant.

"Jesus, Britt!" Santana swears again, her eyes annoyed with the sudden change from dark to light to dark again.

And then another light, one Santana didn't notice at first: this one a low beam, close to the floor. She finds Brittany behind the glow, crouched on the carpet, clutching a flashlight with both hands. Shadows pool in the deep places of Brittany's face and she seems somehow smaller than usual, like a little girl huddling in her bed, awakened from a bad dream. When Brittany speaks next, there's that skittish fear in her voice again: "If you turn on the lights, you'll scare him. His eyes are already dilated."

"Whose eyes, Britt? What's going on? Are you okay?" Santana checks Brittany over, but can find nothing wrong with her, aside from the fact that she's trembling, and—"Britt, are you crying?"

Brittany doesn't really answer. "It's my fault."

"What is?"

"My hands were wet and I was cooking with the lights off. I should have swept the glass up, but I didn't 'cause the sauce got on my socks and I wanted to wash it out and then I found him and he'd cut himself. I think he was trying to lick the meat up 'cause he loves oregano—"

Just then, something clicks into place.

"Lord Tubbington, Britt?" Santana interrupts. "Is that what this is about? Lord Tubbington?"

Suddenly, Santana feels like she just solved a riddle. She feels like she can breathe again. This is about the cat; it's always about the damn cat. And Brittany is okay. Relief.

Except that Brittany's not okay.

"He's bleeding real bad, San. He hurt his leg and it's all my fault and now he's hiding under the bed and I can't get him to come out. I think he's mad at me because I let him get hurt. He knows it's my fault." Brittany knuckles at her face to press the tears away. Santana can tell how much Brittany's shaking by the way the light she's holding wavers against the walls.

Brittany seldom cries and almost nothing scares her, so seeing her like this? It freaks Santana out a lot. The relief Santana felt just seconds ago dissolves as if it never happened.

"It's not your fault," Santana says, because it's the only sure thing she can think to tell Brittany right now. She knows how hard Brittany can take things sometimes; she knows that Brittany blames herself for things that aren't her fault, like, pretty much whenever things go wrong. It's almost as if Brittany sees so much good in everyone else that she actually believes that if someone makes a mistake, it must be her, no question about it.

(Brittany never blames Santana for anything.)

(A pang.)

"Let me look," Santana says and kneels down, leaning one arm against the mattress for support as she peers under the bed, gesturing for Brittany to shine the light her way.

Lord Tubbington huddles by the back right corner of the bed, close to the wall and far away from Santana and Brittany. He growls a nasty snarl, somehow deeper and more guttural than anything Santana's heard from him before. His yellow eyes glare against the light. And Brittany's right: his pupils are dilated; they glint, metallic and overlarge, with each quiver of Brittany's unsteady hands. Lord Tubbington yowls and makes a short charge when Santana leans forward to get a better view of him.

Already jittery, Santana feels a new surge of adrenaline. She retracts quickly from under the mattress, as if scalded.

Almost immediately, Brittany sets a hand on Santana's shoulder from behind, causing her to jump again. "Maybe you shouldn't," Brittany says in a small voice. "He won't let you get close to him anyway. He knows you're a Reds fan. He has such strong feelings about the National League."

"I'm not, though! I just went to one game with my dad!"

"But he bought you that hat and you wear it."

"Only to the pool."

"Lord Tubbington is a very staunch Cleveland supporter."

(Brittany does this thing where she makes Santana smile whenever she can tell that Santana feels scared, even if Brittany feels scared, too.)

(Santana smiles a lot around Brittany—more than she does around anybody else.)

"Britt, what are we gonna do?" Santana asks, leaning back on her haunches.

Brittany casts a glance under the bed. A pause. "I think I could get him out if I could wrap him up in something so he can't scratch." She sounds a little bit calmer now.

(Maybe cracking jokes helps Brittany as much as hearing them helps Santana.)

"I'll go get a towel," Santana offers.

"'Kay," Brittany says, and, without really thinking about it, Santana leans over and places a kiss in Brittany's hair, tender with her in a way that she is with no one else.

"Be right back," Santana says, breathing in Brittany's warmed over shampoo scent, holding it in her lungs for as long as she can as she heads down the hallway, savoring the calm it brings. Relax, she tells her body as she reaches the linen closet beside Brittany's parents' bathroom. Be still. It does, but more because it listens to the lingering feeling of the kiss Santana planted on Brittany's head than to Santana herself.

Right now, Santana knows that, for other people, it's like fight or flight, and then it's over—one quick tussle if they slug it out, one short sprint if they run—but that, for her, it's like battles and marathons, with nothing in-between. If something startles Santana, it stays with her all day. What Santana won't admit to herself yet is that the only thing that can calm her down when she gets like this is Brittany: Brittany and kisses, Brittany and skin, Brittany telling jokes, Brittany breathing for Santana when Santana can't breathe.

(At this point, all Santana will say is that Brittany's her best friend and knows how to deal with her.)

(Sometimes when Santana feels bad, she won't even let herself go to Brittany because she wants Brittany too much.)

Santana knows that Brittany's mom keeps the good towels at the front of the closet and the ratty ones in back, so she reaches around the carpet cleaner on the second shelf and digs until her fingers find the worn-in terrycloth loops she remembers by feel. Santana can't see the towel very well through the darkness, even when she rescues it from the depths of the closet, but she knows that it's powder blue with large white and yellow blotches sprawled across it, like lakes on a map of the Midwest or a shrink's haphazard ink blots—ruined when Brittany first learned to do her laundry two years ago, at age fourteen, and couldn't quite remember how much bleach to add per cycle.

(Brittany's gotten way better with the laundry since then.)

(Santana thinks that that will come in handy when they're college roommates one day.)

On her way back to the bedroom, Santana tries to convince herself that she's just upset about Tubbs, but somehow she feels like she's about to cry. She won't cry tonight—she can't cry in front of Brittany, not when Brittany's crying, because that would just make Brittany feel worse about everything than she already does—but she will cry next weekend after another bad date with another lame boy. She'll cry like really fucking hard, actually.

(God, why do they all have to be such assholes?)

(Santana doesn't think about next weekend or random boys right now; all she thinks about is Brittany, Brittany, Brittany and how much she wishes she could just make everything better for her.)

Santana hands the towel to Brittany without a word, trading her for the flashlight. Brittany wraps the towel around her hands like a bandage, covering her bare forearms, before heading around to the other side of the bed where Lord Tubbington hides. When Brittany reaches under the mattress, it reminds Santana of a baker wearing heat mitts, reaching into an oven so she can pull out a hot pan; Lord Tubbington is anything but sweet, though. He makes a noise that doesn't even sound feline when Brittany grabs him and struggles against her grip so that she has to give him a tug.

"Britt!" Santana says, taking a step around the edge of the bed.

Briefly, Brittany meets Santana's eyes; she shakes her head no. "Just get ready to get the door," she says. "We need to take him to the vet."

Santana does as Brittany tells her, moving silently to the other side of the room, placing nervous fingers on the handle as Brittany gives another firm tug and finally dislodges Lord Tubbington from his hiding place.

The cat makes an ungodly sound, like a whining engine refusing to kickstart, and immediately goes into attack mode; usually, he's pretty chill with Brittany, even when she cuddles him too much, but now he fights her fang and claw, a writhing weight in her arms. Brittany struggles to quash him into the towel, to swaddle him like a baby so that he can't hurt her.

Santana shines the light on them, her whole system on edge, like she's part of this wrestling, too. She catches sight of Lord Tubbington's right, front leg and finally sees what Brittany means: a deep, dirty slash runs from just above his paw to where his stripes turn into spots. In the dark, the wound looks almost black, the fur around it matted with dark blood, already thick with clot.

Brittany makes these little shushing noises, as though quieting a fussy baby; she ignores Lord Tubbington's struggling, working around him, only flinching a little bit when one of his open-clawed swipes connects with her arm.

(When Santana sees that Tubbs left marks on Brittany's skin, she has to hold back from punting him away from her and yelling out that he can bleed to death for all she cares, fucking ungrateful cat.)

(Fat bastard.)

(Poor Britty.)

Finally, Brittany manages to fold Lord Tubbington's flailing limbs into the towel and pull him up to her chest, where she holds him tightly. Brittany looks like one of those teen moms she and Santana sometimes see at the food court in the mall, carrying tantrumming toddlers to the parking lot.

(Dumbasses.)

Even though Brittany knew what she was doing to get the cat out from under the bed, she seems even more scared than she was when she first called Santana. Her eyes shine against the light Santana points at her, wide and worried. She bites her lip between her teeth.

"You'll drive?" Brittany half asks, half decides as they head out into the dark hallway.

Santana had reached to grab Brittany's purse from its hook on the back of the door, but pauses now. She doesn't know why she didn't think about how this getting-to-the-vet part would go down before Brittany said something. "You're not driving?" she asks blankly, a new sort of dread overtaking her.

"I've got to hold onto him," Brittany says, already walking down the hall.

Santana grabs the purse, follows. "We could throw him in his kennel carrier."

"San, please? I can't drive right now. I'm, like, freaked," Brittany says and Santana can hear how much Brittany needs this—for Santana to step up, for Santana to help her—in her voice.

Brittany almost never asks Santana for anything, at least not now, during the summer after their sophomore year, though she will when they are actually juniors, once early on and then a bunch of different times, all for the same thing, until Santana gets a clue.

(Next year, Santana will think that Brittany asks too much from her sometimes.)

(But she'll always do what Brittany asks anyway, because—)

(Santana does what Brittany asks her now, too.)

"I parked in the driveway," Santana says, following Brittany down the stairs as Lord Tubbington yowls from inside his towel wrappings.

The thing is that Brittany is a better driver than Santana, or at least she feels better about driving than Santana does. Santana's only had her real license for a week. Brittany's actually had her license, like, longer than most of the kids in their grade and she's just so calm when she's on the road; nothing fusses her. Santana's just the opposite: everything about driving makes her nervous, so much so that the idea of taking her car out on the main roads of Lima makes her feel a little dizzy, like everything's happening too fast and all at once.

It's not that Santana doesn't trust herself to handle her car—she's actually super careful when it comes to paying attention to the road and signaling and obeying all the traffic laws, almost obsessively so—it's that she doesn't trust everybody else around her to handle their cars in relation to hers. She can't control them and they could fucking do anything, okay? People are idiots.

Brittany tries to tell Santana not to worry so much about it. She says that most people try just as hard not to cause wrecks and Santana does to avoid being in them. She talks about defensive driving and how most people on the road have had their licenses longer than she and Santana have, so they probably know what they're doing.

Santana wants to believe Brittany, but she can't, because, well... Brittany didn't have to do her fucking mandatory behind-the-wheel ride-alongs for driver's ed with Finn "I don't know the difference between the brake and the gas pedal" Hudson.

As they get into the car, Brittany mentions that they'll have to go to the emergency vet because the regular one is probably closed for the night.

"Could you sit in back with him?" Santana asks, eyeing the wriggling, dangerous, towel-wrapped ball that is Lord Tubbington. "He's kinda freaking me out right now."

It turns out to be a good call.

Not only does Santana startle a little every time Lord Tubbington makes a sudden noise, but the rain splattering against her windshield and the constant shush-shush of the wiper blades against the window makes her feel on edge, like something could go wrong at any minute. It doesn't help that she's driving unfamiliar streets, far away from their neighborhood and the school and BreadStiX and basically any other place Santana might want to go. One more distraction would be just too much. Santana keeps both hands tight on the wheel, precisely at ten and two, as though that's what's going to save them.

Every few minutes, she checks in the rearview and sees Brittany looking pale and guilty, bending down to kiss Lord Tubbington's ears poking out from the towel. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It'll be okay. Shh. I'm sorry," Brittany whispers again and again, kneading the hem of the towel with her fingers, shiny tear tracks running down her cheeks.

Santana only realizes how fucking weird this all is when she and Brittany step up to the triage desk in the waiting room, Brittany panting as she fights to keep Lord Tubbington in her arms, all three of them rain-slicked, Santana in her Cheerios uniform and Brittany in her comfy, mismatched movie night pajamas, doing this seriously grown-up thing without a parent with them. The veterinary nurse doesn't seem to think much of it, but Santana thinks Dear Lord.

The next few minutes are a blur as Brittany explains, with help from Santana, how Lord Tubbington got hurt, first to the nurse and then the vet, and then helps them shuffle Lord Tubbington into a kennel made for Miniature Schnauzer and Lhasa Apso-sized dogs, because he's too big for just a regular cat carrier. The vet says that Tubbs will need sutures so they'll probably have to put him under, and when she does, Brittany's breath catches and she starts to look a little green under the florescent lights. She only consents after everyone—the vet, the nurse, Santana—assures her that it's for the best.

"It'll be okay, Britty," Santana says as the veterinary staff carry Lord Tubbington, still screeching, away through some swinging doors. Santana nudges Brittany over to the waiting chairs and coaxes her to sit down, before taking the seat next to hers. The television hanging in the corner plays an old 90's sitcom set on mute; neither of them watch it. Brittany's eyes find the floor and stay there. She sighs and her whole body seems to crumple; she runs a worried hand though her hair, fingers snagging on tangles.

Suddenly, Santana starts to feel really guilty about things that have nothing to do with Lord Tubbington.

She wants to—

—she can't, though.

But then Brittany does it on her own: reaches over and finds Santana's hand, twining their fingers tightly together, as though Santana is the only thing holding her safe. For a second, Santana tenses, fearful that the nurse will come back. She hasn't held hands with Brittany like this since they were in elementary school; now they link pinkies instead. Santana's about to yank her hand away when she thinks about Brittany's wide, scared eyes in the rearview mirror and about how much Brittany blames herself for this whole mess when it isn't even her fault and suddenly finds that she can't.

Instead, Santana gives Brittany's hand a squeeze and reaches over, piloting Brittany's head gently onto her shoulder. The second she does, Brittany seems to relax.

And even though Santana still feels weird about it, she decides that she's gonna stay put if it kills her. Because, really? It's like almost midnight anyway and they're at the fucking emergency vet. Who the hell is going to see?

Next week, Santana will try to forget how Brittany's warm, wet breath on the crook of her neck made her feel like she was finally in the right place doing the right thing for once, and the fact that, after a half-hour or so, their heartbeats eventually synced up, steady, and mostly that, in the moment when Brittany let out a sigh against her skin, she felt like she would do anything to protect Brittany—like something inside of her stood at attention, ready and waiting, brave.

She'll try to forget.

Next week, Santana will get with a boy whose big, dumb thumbs will bruise her hipbones and who'll tell her thanks for the good lay afterwards and she'll feel rusty inside and like she's always at the wrong place at the wrong time and she'll cry like really fucking hard, and Brittany will be the one to calm her, pressing butterfly kisses into her hair and cracking jokes about the cartoon on the back of the Cap'n Crunch box until Santana finally smiles. But then Santana will remember herself and pull away. She'll say she has to go and doesn't Brittany have a date with like a fucking basketball player or something anyway?

(Because Santana can't forget.)

(Sometimes Santana wants everything too much.)

Right now, though, Santana just stays in the moment, feeling Brittany's pulse against her palm and ignoring how uncomfortable these goddamn fucking waiting chairs are. Eventually, after what seems like forever, the nurse comes back out from the back room. The clock over her shoulder says it's just past one a.m., but Santana can't help but think that it's like five or six or seven in the morning.

Both Santana and Brittany hold their breaths—for different reasons, really—until the nurse tells them that Tubbs will be okay, that he'll be a little groggy and that he'll have to wear a cone collar around his neck so he doesn't pick his sutures out, but that they should be able to take him to his regular vet in about three weeks to have the stitches removed and he'll be good as new.

Then they both sigh, relieved.

"Can we see him?" Brittany asks, and the nurse says sure, she'll bring him right out.

Before they leave, the nurse asks about a payment plan, and, for a second, Brittany panics, her oversight plain upon her face; in their rush, she didn't bring any money.

"It's okay, Britt," Santana says, producing Brittany's purse from under her shoulder. "Didn't your family buy pet insurance or something? There's that little card in your wallet with the kittens and dogs on it."

And, for a second, Santana thinks that maybe Brittany might kiss her.

The nurse didn't lie when she told them Tubbs would be groggy; whereas before he was all fight and snarl, now he's listless and docile, his head lolling around inside the cone collar, his whole body dead weight. He even drools a little, his spittle pooling under his chin.

(Santana thinks he looks like a total dumbass, but she doesn't say so.)

(The things Santana does for Britt.)

The vet had to shave Lord Tubbington's leg around the wound to put the sutures in. Now spider leg stitches crawl up his foreleg over his naked, gray skin. Even though he's still pretty much sedated, Tubbs flinches when Brittany takes hold of his arm to get a better look at the vet's handiwork.

(Santana would never admit as much out loud, but she actually feels pretty bad for Tubbers.)

(Even though this is his own fucking fault.)

(Lardo.)

Outside, it's stopped raining, but the ground is still wet. Santana unlocks her car and then goes around to the passenger side to open the front door for Brittany. When Brittany quirks an are-you-sure? eyebrow, Santana nods. "He's quiet now," she says. "He'll probably just sleep, right?"

Brittany smiles, tired but grateful. Santana holds the seatbelt back while Brittany clambers awkwardly into the front seat, then carefully clicks it into place around Brittany and over Lord Tubbington wrapped up in his towel, crossing the shoulder strap over Brittany's heart.

The whole ride home, Brittany whispers kisses into Lord Tubbington's fur, massaging his uninjured paw between her fingers. "It'll be okay," she assures him. "We'll be fine. I'm here and Santana's here. She'll take good care of us. It'll be okay, baby."

When she reaches across the center console to take Santana's hand again, Santana doesn't fight it. She allows Brittany to slip her fingers through hers and breathes; Santana drives with one hand on the wheel all the way back to Brittany's house.


	4. Chapter 4

When Santana fights, she feels this high, hot clarity—like she can see for miles and feel everything all at once. But when Brittany fights, she feels wilty—her word, not Santana's. After Santana fights, though? She feels spent, and usually like an ass. But Brittany? She feels resigned, responsible, even.

(Brittany picks her fights. Santana's fights pick her.)

It's just another one of those things.

So.

Right now, Santana feels spent, as well she should. She can't even remember what she said anymore, just the scorch of the Spanish as it flew from her tongue and the way her pulse went crazy beneath her skin—the way she went crazy. Berry had it coming, of course. And if no one else was going to give it to her? Well, then, Santana was just doing the will of God or the universe or justice or whatever.

(Santana isn't sure that she believes in any of those things anymore.)

(She only believes in one thing, really.)

(Brittany was the one who pulled her away, around the time Santana's voice gave out.)

Brittany's voice calms Santana when nothing else will. And Brittany knows that—or at least knows something like that—as well as Santana does, which is probably why she keeps whispering "Hey, now" and "It's okay, San" into Santana's hair while Santana cries.

Eventually, it works; Santana's breathing smoothes out, her body relaxes, tuned to Brittany. She slumps into the dint in Brittany's shoulder and presses tears into Brittany's skin just above the halter on her pretty, black show dress. Santana's cheeks still feel hot all over, but everything in her listens to Brittany when Brittany tells her, "Come here. Sit still," and steers Santana over to the wall, where they both sink down. Brittany keeps hold of Santana's hand and everything in Santana listens to that, too.

"Shh," Brittany shushes her, not because she wants Santana to be quiet, but because she wants Santana to breathe. "I know," she says, and Santana knows that she does—and not just about how much it sucks that they lost, but about everything. Santana doesn't even have to explain.

Brittany reaches over and plucks at the laces on Santana's oxfords until the knots unravel, then pulls off the shoes—right, left, backwards from how Santana would do it—and Santana feels a surge of adoration over the dull ache; Brittany will make a great mom someday.

Three vending machines and the broken ice maker across from them whir and rattle, drowning out the sounds of Santana's sniffling and the static drone of hotel hallway. "Sorry," Santana says, because she is sorry—sorry for flipping out on Rachel back in the room, sorry for bawling like a baby after Brittany dragged her away from everyone, sorry because, even after everything that happened between them, she and Brittany have somehow managed to finish this year exactly as they started it: holed up in a closet, waiting for Santana to get her shit together.

The irony isn't lost on Santana, even if the closet thing is stretching it.

(It's actually an alcove.)

Brittany scrunches up her nose and says, "Those guys are fuckers," and Santana laughs a little because Brittany almost never swears, but when she does, she acts all cute about it, like she popped a tart jellybean in her mouth instead of a sweet one by mistake. Santana knows that Brittany doesn't really mean it—Brittany likes those glee club kids—even though Brittany acts like she means it for now, just to make Santana feel better, and Santana loves her a little bit more because she's willing to pretend.

(Every time Santana thinks she couldn't possibly love Brittany more, suddenly she does.)

Santana wishes she could explain herself to Brittany, but she can't find the words. Instead, Santana just nods. "Yeah," she says, pressing the last tears out of her eyes and wiping them away with her nail, mad at herself for losing her cool. She slouches over. After a second of consideration, she lowers her head onto Brittany's shoulder. Brittany sighs and Santana does, too; Santana hadn't realized she was holding her breath again.

Suddenly, she's home.

For a long time, they both stay quiet. Santana can't chase the afterimage of the stage lights and hundreds of backlit gray faces in the audience from her mind. She thinks too much about Funny Girl and Fail Hudson with their big, ugly lips smashed together. She thinks too much about the cosmic difference between a high school hallway during passing time and the stage at the Show Choir National Championships and why she's such a coward. But mostly, Santana thinks about Brittany and the way she shined onstage, moving like electric light. Santana chooses to keep that image, to store it away for forever.

Brittany removes her own shoes and they both sit in their black, rolled ankle socks, Brittany picking at the sequins on her skirt, humming something that sounds vaguely like the song Santana wrote for her, while Santana hovers between sleep and waking, spent from nerves and thrills and disappointments and rage and hurt and love.

About the time Brittany starts drawing patterns on the palm of Santana's open hand, lulling her into a deeper calm, a guy in flip-flops, sopping swim trunks, and an open bathrobe shows up in the alcove. For once, Santana doesn't flinch. He barely even glances at the two girls in pretty dresses huddled together on the floor. Santana and Brittany wait for him to buy a bag of cheesy pretzels and leave before they finally speak again.

"You're okay," Brittany says, and it isn't a question. She presses a light, quick kiss into Santana's hair and Santana all but melts. If Santana wasn't okay before, she definitely is now. Everything in her seems to reach for Brittany. She waits. After a few more minutes of silence, Brittany says, "San? Can we go back to the room? I really want to take my bra off now. The underwire's oppressing my boobs."

Santana laughs. "Well, we can't have that," she says, suddenly feeling much lighter, even though her voice still sounds wet and pathetic in her own ears. "Help me up?"

Brittany looks at her, her expression stuck between mischievous and inquisitive, not because of what Santana asked, but because of something invisible, beyond what Santana can see. She stands and extends an open hand to Santana.

"Up, up," she says.

"Up, up," Santana parrots.

Somehow, they manage to make it through the rest of the night without talking much to anybody. Santana feels mopey and embarrassed of herself. She hides under the dim light of the bedside lamps, halfway obscured by brown shadows, while the other girls brush their teeth and put in their retainers and make phone calls to their parents to tell them sad goodnight, see-you-soons.

Brittany sends Santana these pitying little looks from across the room that feel somehow like hugs and sympathetic kisses on her cheeks. Santana refuses to meet anyone's eyes except hers. When the girls go to sleep for the night, Santana sighs deep, from the bottom of her lungs.

It takes a long time before she starts to dream.

The first time Santana stirs in the morning, she isn't sure if she's awake or dreaming, maybe because yesterday feels like a wash, maybe because Brittany leans over her, the fuzzy tassels on her hat tickling Santana's neck, her nose pressed into Santana's ear. Santana's initial reaction is to soften into the incredible rightness of this moment; waking up next to Brittany is one of her favorite things. But then, once she remembers where they are and who they're with, a brief panic floods her system. Santana doesn't even have to voice it.

"We're alone," Brittany says, quieting the fear before it can fully form. "Go back to sleep. We'll be in the other room. I just didn't want you to think we'd left without you." Brittany's voice sounds like warm honey, better than whatever Santana had been dreaming about. The panic flees and the home-feeling returns, strong and warm.

"Left for Lima?" Santana asks, still stupid with sleep, her voice higher and dopier than usual. Brittany smiles, but doesn't answer; she peels away, fuzzy, colorful hat slightly askew. Her weight lifts from Santana. After a minute, Santana can't see Brittany anymore, but she hears her humming, something light and tuneless. The humming heads towards the door. Santana listens to the click as Brittany disappears, the lock sliding into place behind her.

Santana thanks Jesus or whoever that Brittany drew the curtains before she left. She doesn't bother checking the clock before she sinks into the gray light of the shut room and sleeps again, her jaw tight with exhaustion, her whole self listless, like someone stole her wind.

The second time Santana stirs, she forces herself to sit up and start moving. She thinks about the plane ride ahead of her today and how she's glad she has the room to herself for now and that she wishes she could take yesterday back—almost all of it. As she brushes her teeth, the same shame from last night returns in full force. Santana spits her toothpaste in the sink and reaches for her makeup bag.

If she has to face those fuckers, she's going to look damn hot doing it.

Santana always feels small the day after she loses her temper; the trick is to make everyone else feel smaller by comparison—to make them feel stupid because she was an idiot.

(They're all idiots, except Brittany.)

Santana decides to act slightly bitchier than usual but otherwise like nothing happened as she makes her way to the other room, five doors down the hall. She doesn't have to knock when she reaches the suite because someone propped an oversized loafer in the doorframe as a makeshift jamb, but she stops anyway just before she turns the handle because she hears her name.

"—sick of waiting for Santana to get her lazy ass out of bed! I'm hungry! Let's just go without her. You can bring her a bagel or something after. It'll be fine! She won't care if she misses out on our lameass pity party anyway." It's Puck, whining like a little bitch. Santana isn't surprised. She's about to smirk and announce her presence, but she doesn't get the chance before another voice stops her short.

"Yes, she will. She'll care a lot."

Brittany.

"But Santana doesn't even like us right now. She kinda bitched us out last night."

Finn.

He lowers his voice in an attempt to sound gentle, "I don't think she'll care."

Berry and a few others make noises of agreement.

It's Rachel and Finn that Santana hears loudest, though.

Santana feels something prick in her and suddenly she's angry again. She reaches again for the door handle, the Queen Bitch ready to storm into her court. It isn't so much what Finn said as the fact that Finn is the one who said it and Rachel is the one who agreed with him, or at least the one who agreed with him the loudest. Yeah, Santana did bitch everyone out, but she wouldn't have done it if Dumb-as-a-Rock Hudson hadn't tried to suck Rachel's face off on stage at the show. Fuckers have got something else coming if they think they have any place to feel sorry for themselves after—

"She _does_ care and maybe she'd like you all better if you actually gave her a reason to like you."

Brittany.

Usually, she speaks in staccato, almost like a telegraph, every few words punctuated with a halt. But now she speaks in one long stream. She doesn't sound harsh—Brittany couldn't if she tried—but her tone is hot and blunt as hell. Santana hears a collective gasp and she gasps a little, too. Someone mutters "Jesus" and someone else says "Damn."

Brittany goes on, adamant. "Everyone tells her she's just a bitch, so why shouldn't she be? You only notice when she's mean to you, even when she's nice. I know she can be kinda a bitch sometimes and she says mean things during practice, but she does care. God, just give her a reason! One reason."

The last part sounds like a plea.

A second later, the door opens in Santana's face and Brittany is right in front of her, cheeks flushed, lips pouty, her fuzzy hat crumpled in her hands instead of jaunty on her head. Santana feels a pang when she sees how exhausted Brittany looks—like she just finished one of Coach Sylvester's monster Cheerios workouts. Brittany panics when she sees Santana, her eyes bright with worry that Santana may have overheard something. Santana can almost see the excuses forming on her tongue.

Brittany shouldn't have to make excuses for her, though; after everything that happened this year, one of the only things Santana knows for sure is that.

And just like that, it's one of those "Oh shit" moments.

Santana wants to say something about how she doesn't—or at least shouldn't—care about what those guys in there think about her anyway. Fuckers, right?

She wants to say something about how yeah, it sucks or whatever, but.

She wants to say thank you, because nobody has ever stood up for her like that. But maybe she doesn't want to put it that way, because, no, that would be a lie; Brittany has stood up for her, Santana just never… or maybe she always.

She wants to tell Brittany she's so sorry for everything this year, that she realizes now how hard Brittany has fought for this. She wants to say that she's trying; from now on, she'll fight just as hard as Brittany.

She wants to say God, Britt.

She wants to explain something about this surge of hopeful adoration in her chest and how, for once, she thinks she can do this.

She wants to say I love you, you're my favorite, will you marry me?

Right then, Santana makes a choice.

Instead of anything else, Santana says, "Where you going, BrittBritt?" and she sounds genuinely happy. Relief blooms behind Brittany's eyes, and suddenly, Santana feels genuinely happy, too. Santana doesn't wait for Brittany to answer. Instead, she says, "Wanna go get breakfast?"

Brittany nods. Her face loosens. "Sure," she says, stepping further out into the hall.

Santana pauses.

"What?" Brittany asks, nervous again.

"Well, shouldn't we wait for everybody else?"

And just like that, Santana wouldn't take back yesterday anymore—none of it—because all of that shit led her here, to this moment, where Brittany smiles at her, all electric light again. Brittany looks relieved and pleased and reverent and thrilled and like Santana just told her the best secret in the world. Brittany wets her lips and leans. For a second, Santana thinks that they just might kiss.

But then there are voices at the door.

"Speak of the devil!" says Kurt. "Is that Santana?"

And Lauren Zizes. "About time! Quit gabbing and let's go already!"

Then there's movement and their teammates pouring into the hall, filling up the aseptic space between the hotel carpet and the walls with babbling and footsteps and all sorts of noise. Santana only hears one thing, though: Brittany's voice beneath the din.

"Sleep good, San?"

"Mhm. Perfect."

Brittany's voice calms Santana down when nothing else will.


	5. Chapter 5

One of the things that Brittany and Santana figured out together when they were kids is that bananas taste better sliced—it's just a fact, they can't say why. So now they stand in Brittany's kitchen, sharing one banana between them, Santana with a knife in her hand. Two days have passed since school let out for the summer, and everything seems kinda perfect, really: the banana slices, them.

Ever since Nationals, Brittany feels this sloppy, careless adoration every time she even looks at Santana.

Brittany spent the whole last day of school catching glances of Santana in class and during passing time in the hallways and smiling at her like a dope. And when Santana asked Brittany about "you and I" by the lockers? Brittany felt dizzy with the cuteness—the hopelessness—of her, because, really, Santana? Really?

It almost ended in a kiss.

Instead, it ended in Santana calling Brittany smart and another rush of mad devotion surging up through Brittany's heart, her blood, everything inside of her, all the way to the surface, until her ears turned pink and she felt bashful-brilliant-so in love. And when they left school later that day, it did end in kisses… like a lot, a lot of them in the driveway outside Santana's house. Brittany counted every one, giddy with this reckless trust, as Santana twice told her "I love you" and Brittany said it back both times.

Standing on the front stoop, rifling through her purse for the house key, Santana even called Brittany "babe," as if it were an everyday thing, as if it were just easy. And when Brittany thought about how maybe it could be—an everyday thing, easy—her heart almost beat right out of her chest. Everything in her was just Santana, Santana, Santana.

But sometimes it doesn't even have to be that, all romantic and big.

It can just be them, too.

Like right now, Brittany just watches Santana slice the banana on a cutting board on the kitchen island and she feels punch drunk, like she couldn't possibly think any more of Santana.

Of course she can, though.

And she does.

Santana makes these clever, even dices through the fruit, creating little off-white coins with sand-dollar seedlets in the middles and Brittany can't help but think that Santana is pretty much amazing. To keep herself from leaning over and kissing Santana right here—they can't because Brittany's sister is home and she has this obnoxious habit of turning up at the wrong time for everything—Brittany takes one of the banana slices from the board and says, "Have you ever noticed that banana Laffy Taffy doesn't taste like real bananas?"

Santana smiles and takes a banana slice of her own. She talks with her mouth full. "Yeah, it tastes _weird_. Have you ever noticed that the jokes on the Laffy Taffy wrappers aren't funny?"

"Yeah, they are—they're so dumb, it's funny."

"That's true."

Santana finishes cutting the banana and the last slice hangs off the blade of her knife, perfectly smooth on one side and sticky enough to catch; Santana licks it away, absentminded, before pushing Brittany's half of the bananas towards her on the board with the flat of the knife. Brittany melts inside.

They both pluck banana slices from the board and take small pleasure in mashing the coins with their tongues against the roofs of their mouths. When Santana gestures towards the fridge, mumbling gibberish around a mouthful of banana, Brittany understands right away. She nods enthusiastically and Santana turns and opens the fridge to get them some milk. Brittany can't help but stare at Santana as she moves, retrieving the milk carton from behind the mayonnaise jar on the second shelf with one hand before kicking the fridge door shut with her foot.

Santana knows where everything is in the Pierce house, so when she finds that there are no clean cups in the top cupboard, she immediately checks behind the little door under the counter and, sure enough, finds some kiddie glasses with googly-eyed puppies and clowns painted on the sides. She waggles her eyebrows at Brittany suggestively as she fills them like they're wine goblets or something, and Brittany thinks she might just die from being too happy. She might just die from loving Santana so much.

About the time that Brittany realizes that she's grinning at Santana, Santana realizes it, too.

"What?" Santana says amusedly, setting the kiddie glasses down on the island. In middle school, when Santana would catch Brittany staring her, she would always act a little angry about it, but now her voice sounds soft and she wears the beginnings of a smile. When Brittany doesn't answer right away, Santana honest-to-god checks over her shoulder, as if there's something wonderful behind her attracting Brittany's attention instead of—you know—_her_.

Jesus.

Brittany laughs, embarrassed that Santana caught her staring, even though… well, you know.

"Oh my god, I have such a big crush on you!" Brittany blurts out, giggling, and hides her face in her hands to block out her self-consciousness.

When she looks up, she catches a tinge of worry cross Santana's face, fast like a rabbit darting over an open field. "But I thought you said you...," Santana starts, and Brittany can see Santana thinking about what Brittany told her at the lockers the other day and in the driveway after school and before they said goodbye last night, panicked that Brittany somehow means to downplay it.

"Oh, that, too!" Brittany says quickly, reassuring her. "So much… I just mean… God, you're cute." After a long pause, both of them grinning, Brittany whispers, "I love you," conspiratorially.

Santana never really blushes, but Brittany sees her, breathless, and knows that there's heat rising to her cheeks. She looks more like the old Santana—healthier and not so green around the face—but also less like the old Santana—softer and less gun shy—than she did three weeks ago, before the prom, when things were still so shaky. Santana mouths back, "Love you, too," and grins like someone just gave her a really awesome present.

"Oh!" Brittany says. She reaches across the island, extending a pinky finger to Santana, who accepts it. "Come on." Brittany grabs the last two banana slices, popping one in her mouth and handing the other to Santana, who follows her around the island.

"BrittBritt, where are we going?" Santana asks as they stumble out of the kitchen.

"Just wait," Brittany says, and Santana does; she's a lot more patient than some people give her credit for.

Just as they round the banister and start climbing the stairs to the second floor, Brittany's sister appears from the hallway, stopping at the landing. "What are you two smiling at?" she asks, eyeing Brittany and Santana warily. She has that suspicious tone in her voice that means she wants to tattle on them. They haven't done anything wrong, though.

"Your face," says Santana.

"Your mom," says Brittany.

They skitter up the stairs in socks, slipping on the floorboards, leaving Brittany's sister behind.

"My mom is your mom!" she yells after Brittany, pouting.

"That's what you think!" Brittany and Santana yell back in unison, erupting into a fit of giggles. Brittany gives Santana's pinky finger a squeeze.

"God, you two are so immature!"

It's almost a shame that they don't stop to see her face, but they have something better to do.

They clatter down the hallway, reckless in their rush, their free hands brushing up against the walls, their feet falling imprecisely, here on the rug, there on the bare boards. As they turn into Brittany's open bedroom, Brittany glances up at the framed photograph hanging on the wall beside her door: it shows Brittany, age eleven, in a blue corduroy jacket and dangling pink plastic earrings, doing a handstand on the grass outside the old Lima Army Tank Plant on a school field trip in the fifth grade. In the bottom left corner of the picture, there's a blur—Santana's thumb.

Another surge of adoration.

"Okay," Brittany says as they come to a stop, pulling the door closed behind them, panting from running and laughing so hard. "Just a minute."

Brittany drops Santana's pinky finger and heads over to the closet without offering Santana further instruction. Santana stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, halfway between the door and the bed, unsure of how to hold herself or what to expect as Brittany starts digging through the closet's contents: two pair snagged, silky pastel point shoes; the old marble run project Brittany did in the sixth grade, paint-spattered and dusty; Brittany's motocross helmet with a long, dirty grass stain along the visor, fresh from her last race; the angular professional grade flash camera from Brittany's photography phase, which bites at Brittany's bare knuckles as she shunts it quickly aside.

And then, the thing Brittany wants to find.

"BrittBritt?" Santana says nervously, still not sure of what she's supposed to do.

Brittany emerges from the closet, paper bag in hand. Brittany thinks it's obvious what's inside the bag—the shape gives it away—but when Brittany hands it off to her, Santana holds it like a mystery, careful. "Thanks," Santana says before she even knows what it is that Brittany's given her; more sloppy, happy love bubbles up in Brittany. It shouldn't be possible for one person to be so cute.

Santana gives Brittany a tentative look and Brittany nods. "Open it," Brittany says encouragingly, and Santana does as she's told, crinkling away the wrinkled wrappings to produce Brittany's gift: a rhyming dictionary with a bright yellow and teal front cover.

Before Santana can say anything, Brittany explains, "I really liked that song you wrote for Nationals—it was super good and it meant a lot to me—and it seemed like you liked writing it. You're an awesome songwriter, San. Like, really awesome. I was gonna save this for your birthday, but I didn't want to wait, because I thought that maybe if you wanted to, you could try writing some more over the summer. Maybe if you wrote a song, I could choreograph something to it, or I dunno..." Brittany looks at Santana to gauge her reaction.

A long pause.

Then.

"You really think I'm good, Britt?" Santana asks, her voice small and crackly. She smiles like the thought never even occurred to her before and Brittany loves Santana even more for all her ridiculous uncertainty.

"Totally," Brittany says, and the next thing she knows, they're kissing.

It's a little kiss here, a little kiss there, traded back and forth between smiling lips. Santana's kisses say Thank you, thank you, thank you and Really, Britt? You're the best. Brittany's kisses say You're funny sometimes, San and You're hopeless and I love you for it.

Without breaking from their trading game, they slowly sit down on the rug, cross-legged and with their knees touching each other, Santana in jeans, Brittany in shorts. Santana sets the book beside her on the rug and keeps her hands in her lap, folded, thumbs twiddling. Brittany clasps the hem of her shorts, fingers working over the fabric. The kisses get a little deeper, a little sloppier. "You taste like sliced bananas," Brittany mumbles against Santana's lips.

Santana laughs. "Sliced bananas, Britt?" She grins goofily, looking as silly and happy as Brittany feels inside. "Mm. You do, too."

"Maybe you should write a song about it."

"Yeah?"

More kisses.

Brittany smiles into the last kiss. "Yeah: 'Sliced Banana Kisses.' It would probably even be better than 'My Headband.'" Then, after a beat, "Don't tell Rachel I said that, though."

Santana wears that evil look that Brittany secretly thinks might be the cutest thing in the whole world. Brittany tries not to adore it so much, but she can't help it; it's just so Santana. "Oh, I'm definitely telling Berry," Santana says, talking mean, but smile turning nice.

"San!" Brittany protests, but not too much. Really, she just leans into another kiss, and another, and another. She tilts her head and grins into Santana's cheek, pressing her lips against Santana's dimple before moving back to her mouth again. Brittany feels light and sweet and her heart beats like it knows a secret—the good kind, like she and Santana have never had before.

Santana sighs against her lips; they kiss each other silly.


End file.
